••• Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Dear Knitting... 

Why you hate?

Okay. I guess that’s not exactly fair.

The Knitty Kitty is, as of yet, not quite knitty or kitty.
I’m up to the eyeballs. ::And In more ways than one merely unknitty kitty.::

But I don’t have any eyeballs.
And I don’t have any embroidery thread.
And I don’t want to go to the store to buy something.
Or anything.
And I don’t want to stuff the damn thing.
Or sew its cute little paws to its little striped body.

Evidently I’m not a knitty kitty kind of gal.

And I ripped out that Cherry Hill scarf, again, and started knitting the yarn into a runner for my dining room table.

Seven inches in, I hated it.

So I ripped it again.

And then I looked at all my new yarn, and had a yearn.

But then I thought to finish Cakers’ Willam’s L’il Step-Bro sweater before she grows out of it.

But I can’t find the pattern alterations.
I know I wrote them.
On a piece of paper.
Like a scrap paper.
But not that scrappy.
Like in the bottom margin of a Dulaan hat pattern.

I was so careful to keep this precious paper, that I put it somewhere special. And secret.

Isn’t that special?
And it really shouldn’t be a problem just counting some stitches.
And writing it all down again.

But I don't want to count.
I don't want to write.
I want to sit.
And knit.

Like something I haven't done in over a week.

And still, that damn unknit kitty.

Giving me a mournful look.

With only his mind’s eye.

With only a mind that’s still only stuffing.
In a bag.

Now you’re getting this.
I know you are.

And don’t get me started on that.

And I’m ridiculously overwhelmed with work. And stuff.
And it is showing no signs of stopping.
And if my mind wasn't so bleary-eyed,I'd see something clever to say.

When I’m stressed, like this, I talk to myself.
A lot.

But I’ve reached a new level.
With this.

Now I talk to myself, about myself.

Behind my back.

Send booze.

And eyes.

And minds.

And stuff.


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